There are many things in this life that I hate: war, racism, Anne Geddes babies… In all honesty, I’m far more likely to abhor than adore. (I also rhyme part-time.)

Sure, sometimes my contempt isn’t totally fair, nor is it usually socially acceptable. It’s frankly quite rare that I’m anything better than the assh**e that hates babies (I swear it’s only the leafy ones). I’m not saying I’m proud of my intolerant lifestyle; I don’t relish my diet of Lactaid and Haterade. It’s just a fact I feel I should ‘fess up to before I discuss the holiday at hand.

Because there is nothing (NOTHING) I despise more than Valentine’s Day. Really. It’s like Hitler and Voldemort had a baby that flies and shoots things and all I wanna do is rom-vom all over the place.

…But before I RSVP to the Ladies’ Roundtable of Disgust and Despair, I’d like to try something new. My friends with boyfriends (really not my friends anymore) call it “optimism.” And I’d like to share it with you. So, in the spirit of we’re-all-in-this-together (because-no-one-else-will-have-us) frowndship, I’m here to get you through this. To give you a sliver of hope this February 14th, by way of a motto. To be repeated as needed. (Rhymed again! Seriously. It’s like Shel Silverstein grew a vagina.)

Okay, ready? Five words. Six syllables. Sounds like grasping at straws–

And here’s how…

20 Ways Your Valentine’s Day Could Suck More Than It Already Does

  • You get cholera.
  • Your Bitch magazine subscription expires.
  • New legislation passes: You now live in a dry county. And you’re all out of recreational Nyquil.
  • The cashier at Yogurtland asks how many spoons you need. “Just the one. But I’m emotionally eating for seven.”
  • You feel joy in or around your vicinity.
  • You get dysentery.
  • You find a stain on your Jane Austen crop top. Outfit ruined.
  • It’s 70 degrees and sunny. Your “it’s just raining on my face” line no longer flies.
  • Your mom joins Facebook. Not really related to Valentine’s Day. Just decidedly unpleasant.
  • Your cats commit suicide. And they use all your scented candles to do it.
  • Taylor Swift reveals she knew he was trouble like…twenty minutes after the fact.
  • You sign up for a Grouper. You get a fish.
  • None of your Tinder matches will help you grill your grouper.
  • Braid Bar declines your request. They do not offer services for leg hair.
  • Carl’s Jr. will only let you order from the pre-fixe menu.
  • Your Nicholas Sparks book club goes to Safe Haven without you.
  • Your mailman leaves a copy of Eat, Pray, Love on your doorstep with a note: “It gets better.”
  • You die.

See? It’s not as bad as you think it is. Besides, there are 364 other days and one of them is Arbor Day and that’s the holiday you shine, gurl. So you can take your Perkoset-infused-gin in one hand, and your moonshine-flavored-absinthe in the other, and toast to the fact that your life really isn’t all that bad.

Because you could totally have cholera. Or dysentery.

Images via Google and Angry Little Girls